The Corporate Intelligence Diet

The spinach sat limp in Emma's Tupperware, a sodden green confession of another lunch spent pretending. Three months into her undercover assignment at Verdant Greens Inc., and she'd stopped bothering to pack anything appetizing. Food was fuel now, like everything else in this carefully constructed life.

She was a corporate spy, though the term felt grandiose for what she actually did: take notes on organic farming methods, memorize supply chain logistics, photograph crop rotation schedules. Her handler called it strategic intelligence gathering. Emma called it stealing trade secrets for a conglomerate that would probably pave over these fields to build a parking lot.

The worst part wasn't the deception—it was how easy it had become. She'd crafted a persona so convincing that even she sometimes forgot who she'd been before. The Emma who'd cared about art, who'd stayed up late discussing philosophy over wine, who'd dreamed of opening a bookstore—that woman felt like a stranger she'd once read about.

"Earth to Emma."

She blinked. Mark from accounting was smiling at her, that gentle crinkle around his eyes that made her chest ache with something she refused to name. "Your spinach looks sad. Want to get actual food?"

This was the complication she hadn't anticipated. Mark, with his terrible jokes and genuine kindness and the way he looked at her like she was someone worth knowing. Last week he'd invited her to join his running club, and she'd almost said yes—until she remembered she didn't exist.

"I'm good," she heard herself say. "Watching my carbs."

The lie tasted like her lunch: bland, necessary, sustainable.

Later, she ran along the river path until her lungs burned, legs pumping rhythmically, the physical pain better than the alternative. Running was the only time she felt real anymore—no name, no cover story, just breath and motion and the empty horizon stretching endlessly before her. But even here, the company's drone followed silently overhead, collecting data on her route, her speed, her heart rate.

Everything was being watched. Everything was being used.

Back in her apartment, Emma deleted the photos she'd taken that day—crop rotation diagrams, soil samples, Mark's face when he'd asked about her weekend plans. Then she packed her bags, left the key on the counter, and walked out without looking back.

Some secrets deserved to stay buried.